A Man Possessed
by thequeergiraffe
Summary: I don't even know how this happened, seriously. Another one-shot that grew out of control. Rated for smut. Lestrade/John, Sherlock/John. Spoilers through series 2. Sherlock deals with his jealous heart.
1. Chapter 1

**i.**

The first time I see it it's late afternoon, a Saturday in early autumn, and (according to the sudden drop in air pressure and steadily increasing winds) it's about to storm. John is beaming at me, his face flushed and his breath heavy (as well it should be, considering we've just run twenty-three blocks). His knee is pressed into the back of the man we've been hunting for days, the man he's just tackled to the ground, the man who is squirming and protesting his innocence (falsely, says the overwhelming evidence) and saying things about John's mother that don't bear repeating. John doesn't seem to mind at all; he looks immensely pleased with himself. The thrill of the chase.

But I'm not beaming back at John, even though I'm hugely satisfied with the outcome of our labours. I'm not beaming at John because instead I'm looking at Lestrade. Lestrade, with his arms folded and his mouth twisted as though to hold in the words that are written all over his face. Lestrade, with his broken marriage and his drinking (which cannot yet be classified as a problem, not quite, though we both know he's been toeing the line of late). Lestrade, who is looking at John- _my _John- with unbearable concern.

How have I missed this?

I look back at John, watching him relinquish control of the criminal beneath him to one of the Yarders. He straightens up, takes a deep breath, and tugs at his jumper. "Got him," John smiles, and I put my thoughts about Lestrade away for awhile.

"Yes," I say, looking only at John. "We did."

**ii.**

The next time it happens, I almost laugh.

John is sitting on the back of an ambulance, silly orange blanket wrapped around his shoulders, his face wavering between a wince and a grin as one of the technicians dabs at the oozing wound tucked up against his hairline. I'm some feet away, my breath curling like smoke in front of me, and trying not to think about the cigarettes John thinks he's hidden in the flat. (They're under a loose board in his bedroom, three strides in, two strides to the right, four feet from his wardrobe. I've known that for three weeks and two days, but I've yet to be tempted and thus yet to alert John to my knowledge.) I look back up at John, who is trying very hard to sit still and not laugh at something the EMT has said to him as she gives his forehead a few quick stitches. Lestrade is saying something to me, something about paperwork, but the case is solved and I don't care what happens next. That's his problem, not mine.

Lestrade follows my gaze and I stiffen at the slow breath he lets out. I give him a sideways glance and note the clench of his jaw and the bob of his Adam's apple. I almost laugh.

But then he hisses, "Christ," and the laughter spoils in my stomach.

"What?" I snap, gesturing towards John. "He's fine. Clearly."

The laugh Lestrade gives me is more of a release of air, a frustrated noise that makes my eyes narrow. "Christ," Lestrade says again. "You should be more careful with him. It's isn't safe-"

"John doesn't like _safe_," I growl, and when his eyes meet mine it's with perfect clarity. He knows I know. For a moment I think he might hit me (his hand is clenching, arm almost telegraphing the movement of muscles that would bring his fist upwards) but then he slumps and takes a step back, shaking his head.

"Not my place," he says, holding up his hands. (The motion suggests surrender; the glint in his eyes says defiance. I suspect these outwardly conflicting signs reflect some sort of inner conflict, though how there can be any confusion in his mind I'm not sure. Lestrade is an idiot, yes, but he's less of an idiot than most people. Surely he realizes that John is mine.)

"Got something right for once," I snarl, petty but still the victor of this little bout, and I go to collect my spoils, wandering over to John with my hands in my pocket.

"You and Lestrade having a little tiff?" he asks, smiling at me. I search his eyes for some sign that this would bother him, that he's worried about Lestrade's _feelings _in some awful, reciprocal way, and when I don't find any I smile back.

"Who cares about Lestrade?" I say softly, slipping my hand under his chin. "Let's go home."

**iii.**

The next time is infinitely worse.

John is hurt again, but this time the reason is much more innocuous. We're at a company picnic (my attendance having been secured by John's willingness to go to the symphony with me the month before, the sneak) with half of Scotland Yard milling about in their plain clothes. I haven't seen this many pale-skinned, tired-eyed alcoholics in one place since rehab but supposedly this is a "good time" and so everyone is smiling cheerily between bites of disgusting, overcooked pork products and crisps.

Despite his shoulder and a slight case of seasonal allergies, John has been playing football with "the boys" all afternoon. "The boys" consist of several middle-aged men, most of whom are overweight and easily winded, and one broad-shouldered woman by the name of Robin who, if her self-satisfied smile and the fit of her grass-stained jeans are to be trusted, has no issue whatsoever with the group's mildly sexist nickname. Also among "the boys": Lestrade, who is dressed far too casually for my liking and has been insisting that everyone call him "Greg".

When John gets hurt, someone (a short little man with a twitchy moustache and penchant for relish on crisps, disgustingly) blows a whistle and all the football players stop, some of them quickly huddling around him. I half-stand, but when I catch sight of John's face- pink with exertion but also embarrassment; jaw set; eyes apologetic- I sit back down. It won't be serious, not with him looking like that, and I'm hardly the type for reassurances.

Lestrade helps him off the "field" with a helpful arm looped around his waist, and John hobbles along beside him, gritting his teeth a little at the pain in his ankle (not sprained, just wrenched) even as he tries to brush away everyone's concern. Little soldier. I can't help but let my lips twitch into a semblance of a smile at him, my John.

But he doesn't catch my smile. Lestrade is easing him down into a foldaway chair and John is half-heartedly shooing him away, begging him to go back to the game. I read John's lips (_go, really, I'm fine, our team will be two players down if you don't go_) but it's his body language that interests me. He's leaning towards Lestrade almost imperceptibly, and his hands are still on the DI's forearms, his grip loose but still there. His body is saying: _stay_.

Lestrade eases down to his knees in front of John (something is unfurling in my chest, something with teeth and claws) and touches his ankle lightly, his eyes on John's. He's saying something but I can't read his lips from this angle. John shakes his head slightly, half-smiles, but his eyes don't leave Lestrade's.

I don't like that. I don't like that at all.

**iv.**

"You were flirting with him," I say, my tone carefully free of emotion or intonation. My face is a bland mask; my eyes are fixed on the streets that scroll past our black cab's window. It's been a week since the football game, but I still expect John to keep up.

He doesn't. "Who, Brent?" Charles Brent is the main suspect in our current case, despite the fact that the man is clearly innocent, and I can see why John made the intuitive leap as that's who we've just left. Still, a touch of annoyance scatters across my features, and I sweep it away.

"No," I say, my voice even. "Lestrade. At the picnic. You were flirting with him."

"Les…" John trails off and shakes his head, a small echo his movements as he spoke with Lestrade last week, and I'm suddenly irrationally angry, much more so than I expect to be. "Sherlock, don't be ridiculous."

"Is it ridiculous?" I can't keep the anger out of my voice and that makes it somehow worse. In an instant I've turned and grabbed his shirt, twisting the fabric in my fist and yanking him so that our eyes are only inches apart. He can't lie to me, not this close. No one can. "Is it?"

"Yes," he breathes, his face flush and his eyes dark. This isn't what I expected, either. I thought I would see anger, or guilt. Perhaps even fear. I didn't think I'd look into John's eyes and see arousal. Does he like this? Is that why he was flirting with Lestrade? To make me angry? _Why_? "Sherlock," John gasps, and suddenly I don't care why he wanted this. That he wanted it is enough. I close the distance between us, crushing our mouths together and ignoring the fact that I'm trembling, that my hands have scrabbled their way up under his tee-shirt and are scratching at his skin, that I'm mumbling over and over as I trail my mouth down his neck and bite at his flesh: _you're mine, you're mine, you're mine._

"Oi, lovebirds," calls the cabbie, and reality rushes back so quickly I'm dizzy with it. "Baker Street. Now kindly get yer arses out me cab."

John laughs, loud and happy, and it's all right. We're all right.

**v.**

The sentiment holds until Lestrade touches him again.

It's a small thing, a trifle, but I make my business in trifles. We're circled around an empty display case at a jeweler's, and my mind is racing. Surveillance shows the diamonds there one minute, gone the next. No sign of forced entry into either the store or the case. I suspect an inside job, and yet…

Maybe Lestrade assumes I'm lost in my thoughts (I never get lost; my thoughts are as familiar and organized to me as the streets of London) or maybe he thinks I'm not paying attention (we're at a crime scene; I'm seeing _everything_). Either way, he looks at John for a long moment (oblivious John, foolish John, John who is looking carefully around and missing everything of consequence) before grinning and chummily bumping him with his shoulder, sing-songing something about an Arsenal game that makes John bristle with feigned indignity. The touch lasts less than three seconds. I've already considered several ways to incapacitate him before he moves away. I slit my eyes back over to the case (literal, figurative) and then straighten, passing a hand over the line of my suit jacket. "False bottom," I say, and to Lestrade's bewildered glance I gesture impatiently at the case before grabbing John's hand and tugging him out of the shop and into the street.

"Sherlock!" He's tripping along, trying to match my pace, and I force myself to slow down. I don't, however, loosen the grip I have on his hand. "What…Sherlock, did I miss something?"

"You miss everything." I look around and then step forward, using my free hand to hail a cab.

John pulls his way out of my grip and staggers a step back, scowling at me. "What in the _hell_, Sherlock? What's gotten into you?"

The cab eases up beside us. I grab the handle without looking, my eyes still on John and a snarl on my lips. "We're going home."

"Like hell we are!" John's furious, his hand passing down his face. "You can't just…just…" Some of the fight goes out of him. "Christ, Sherlock, I'm not a toy that you can snatch away when you don't feel like sharing."

"Oh, is that what you want?" My voice is deadly low. I let go of the door handle and step right up to John until we're nearly touching, my eyes narrowed. "Do you want to be shared, John?"

"Sherlock…" John licks his lips, his eyes darting nervously. Whatever he sees in my face seems to break him, and he puts his hands on my wrists lightly, cautiously. "You know better than that."

"I don't," I say flatly, pulling away from him. I want to be alone, to play my violin in peace. I want to lie on the sofa with my eyes closed and the world silent; I want to put something, anything in my veins: cocaine, nicotine, I don't care.

"Then you should," John insists, coming up close to me again. He isn't like this in public, normally. The habits of a straight man. His gentle touch, fingers trailing along the blue lines in my forearms, is soothing. "Come on," he says softly, his eyes still worried but also a bit teasing, a bit playful. "Take me home. I'll prove it to you."

I watch him for a long moment, deciding. Finally I settle on, "Okay." I let him take my hand and I raise my free one, drawing us another cab, and when it sidles up to the kerb I examine our reflections in the window before I open the door. John looks desperate, worried; I look like a man possessed.

We get in the cab.

**vi.**

I know it's bad idea as soon as I think of it, but that doesn't stop me considering it. John is kissing me frantically, painfully, our mingled breaths coming out in gasps and broken moans. My back is pressed against the kitchen door; my knees are getting stiff from the awkward angle at which I'm holding them. I bite John's lower lip, hard, and he groans beautifully. Quickly, I stand up straight and pull him into my arms, lifting him a few inches off the floor. He makes a startled little noise as I push him down onto the kitchen table, my nimble fingers making fast work of his zipper. "God, Sherlock," he pants as my fingers brush his erection, but his need- for the first time- isn't the sole focus of my attention. I'm plotting, quietly. Should I? Shouldn't I?

"Stay here," I hiss, giving his cock a rough squeeze, and John nods messily. I like seeing him this way, usually, his cheeks rosy and his eyes dark, lips swollen and glistening. Debauched: for me, by me. Right now, though…I walk at a normal pace to my room and slide open the bedside table's drawer, withdrawing a small bottle of water-based lubricant, which I pocket. My fingers circle my mobile and I hesitate. Should I? Shouldn't I? I pull the phone out, tap out a text.

_John would like me to apologize for rushing off. Come to Baker Street at once and I can fill in the details. SH_

I don't send it right away. But then I do, my thumb pushing the button down decisively, and I'm immediately sure that it was the wrong thing to do and that I'm glad to have done it. Lestrade's response is swift:

_Thank God. Be there in ten._

I slip the mobile back into my pocket slowly, my mouth small, and then I clear my throat and walk back into the kitchen.

John's still sitting at the table, his jeans hanging around his ankles and the flush fading from his face. "Get lost?" he jokes nervously, but I cross the room quickly and kiss his nerves away. I press him down against the table, grinding my hips into him and relishing the unsteady noises he's making beneath me. Lestrade will be here in nine minutes; what will he think when he hears those sounds?

"John," I rumble, my face against his neck, "can I?" My hands have wandered low, cupping his arse. It's normally better for us the other way, with John taking me (either because I'm feeling lazy and just want to lie back and let him manhandle me, or because I'm filled with manic energy that can't be satisfied by mere mindless thrusting and feels better suited to bouncing and circling my hips), but he nods, slightly, and then whispers, "Yes, yes, of course," and I wonder if this is what he's been wanting all along.

John's tight, so tight, around first one finger and then two. We have nearly eight minutes, by my approximation, until our guest arrives. I need John to last, need him to perform exactly as planned when the time comes, so I don't touch his prostrate and I use my free hand not to stroke him but to hold him still against the table. Even so he's moaning, sighing, twitching beneath me, and I feel the first spark of real arousal settle low and warm in my guts. My hips are rocking of their own accord; my mouth has found its way to his stomach and is kissing, sucking, my breath ragged. I take my free hand away from his hip and fumble with my trousers, nearly forgetting my plan as I curl my fingers around my achingly stiff penis and jerk once, twice, before remembering myself and stopping with a frustrated groan.

"Now, Sherlock," John whines, squirming, bucking against my hand, echoing my frustration. "Please. God, _now_."

Five minutes. I think we both can last that long, and if Lestrade happens to hear us orgasm then all the better. "Okay," I gasp, drawing my fingers out of him and eliciting a little hiss. "Okay."

More lubricant; careful, measured strokes. I worry my lower lip with my teeth and try not to look at John, at his hazy eyes and the flush that covers every visible inch of his body. Careful, careful. Even if we finish too soon I'll get a small reward; there won't be any hiding what we've been up to. But I want Lestrade to hear it, and for that I have to be careful. My breathing has slowed, somewhat, and I drop my head and kiss John almost chastely as I line our bodies up, pressing against him but not into him, not yet. "Patience," I murmur against his lips as his hips twitch, and I can't help but smile at the way he screws up his face and grits out a small groan, his hands tightening on my shoulders.

Four minutes. Suppose there's been a delay in traffic? But I don't want to wait until he's on the stair, for God's sake. I need John loud and close, almost ruined but not quite. I shift, press. John is hot and pliant, his body working with mine to bring us together, and I have to pull away from him slightly and put both my hands on his hips to slow things down.

"_Please_," John cries, his hands scratching at mine as I sink slowly, impossibly slow, into his heat. I draw back out; I push in again. Slow strokes. Gentle. John is fidgeting miserably beneath me, his hips fighting against my hands and his back arching, but I keep the pace even though my heart is racing and I'm gasping for air and all I want is to fuck him desperately, roughly, until we're both spent.

Patience. One minute. I pull him a little further towards the edge of the table and increase my pace minutely, enough that John is moaning and giving a renewed effort towards his attempts at pushing back. "God, Sherlock, please," John sobs, his eyes screwed tightly shut. "Please, please, this is torture, please…" His words are dancing along my skin like electricity, making me ache for him. If Lestrade doesn't come soon I'll forgo the plan altogether; already it's growing distant in my mind and my hips are beginning to snap faster, harder.

There: thank God. The outside door. Muffled voices, but I can make out Mrs. Hudson's soft lilt and Lestrade's gravelly growl. Just knowing he's down there- knowing what he's about to hear- almost brings me to the edge and I start fucking John in earnest, all wild abandon now, slamming our bodies together painfully, urgently. "John," I gasp, dipping down again so that our lips are brushing-not kissing him, just letting the motion of my thrusting graze our mouths together. "Tell me."

"Anything, anything," he sighs, his hands pressed against my stomach and his legs wrapped around me, shifting with each slam of my hips.

"Tell me you're mine," I breathe. There are footsteps on the stairwell now, quick at first but slowing as they climb higher. The sounds we're making are unmistakable, I'm sure, but I trust Lestrade's curiosity will bring him close enough to hear John say it. "Tell me, John." I bite at his throat, drawing a low, loud moan from his lips. "Say it."

"Christ!" John slides one of his hands down and I can feel him tugging at his cock in wobbly little strokes. He must be close, so close. He has to say it.

I yank his hand away and replace it with my own, stroking him too roughly, too quickly. "Say it!" I hiss, driving into him, pulling at him, making him hurt.

"God, Sherlock, I'm yours!" John shouts, and then, more loudly: "I'm yours! I'm yours! Yes!"

I come without quite expecting to, the familiar warning tug behind my bellybutton oddly absent. I stiffen, tighten, and then release in a rush of warmth and chemicals, my body slumping against John's pitifully. The world is a haze of ambient noise and a lack of colour. It takes awhile, too long, for me to realize that John has come too, that he's made a mess against my stomach and is shuddering, whimpering beneath me, his whole body twitching. For a moment it's just us, there's nothing else but our broken breaths and John's heartbeat pulsing frantically against my cheek, and then I remember Lestrade. Has he gone? I'm certain he heard what I meant him to hear, but did he hastily retreat or is he still foolishly lingering in the hall, waiting for us to collect ourselves so that he can get the details of his stupid case and refuse to meet either of our eyes?

"Jesus, Sherlock," John sighs, a touch of incredulity in his voice. "That was…" He laughs and runs a hand up my sweat-slick back. "Amazing. Completely amazing."

I never tire of John's praise. Smiling against his chest, I manage, "Mmm. Good?"

"So far beyond good it's unreal," John grins, and I feel…guilt? No, certainly not. Why guilt? Lestrade needed to be put in his place; John needed the same, but in a different way. Both needs are satisfied now, so why guilt?

"Sherlock?" John slips his hands between us and pushes me back from him a little so he can see my face. I don't fight him; I don't have the strength. "Hey, it's fine. I'm fine. You didn't hurt me." Like he so often does, John has missed the point entirely, but that's all right. I ease away from him gently, treating him tenderly now, and drop a soft kiss on his forehead.

"I need a shower," I say, cupping his hand as he strokes my cheek. "And I think you could even talk me into eating something, if you were very persistent." I kiss him again, this time on the lips, a whisper of a kiss. "But you shower first. I cannot and will not have you fussing at me about the lack of hot water, not tonight."

"I'm not sure I'll ever fuss at you again," John lies, grinning, but he goes, shucking off the remainder of his clothes on the way and uncharacteristically shedding them all over the sitting room.

When I hear the water running I pull up my trousers, grimacing in discomfort at the slickness as I tuck myself back in, and try to collect myself as thoroughly as possible. Then I pull open the kitchen door and fix an unpleasant smile on my face. "Hello, Lestrade."

As I expected, he's still there. Frozen on the top step, his hand clenched around the banister railing. He does meet my eyes, at least, and what I see there makes me smirk horribly.

"You are an unbelievable bastard," Lestrade whispers, proving that he's not a total imbecile. I had wondered if he'd catch on right away or if he'd think he stumbled upon some impromptu indecency. Oddly, I feel a tinge of pride.

"Yes," I say, still smirking. "But a clever one. I trust I've made my point?"

"When John finds out-" he starts, but I give him such a dark look that he falters and his eyes grow distant, sad. "He deserves better," Lestrade says softly.

It feels like punch.

"John's a big boy," I drawl, locking my anger away and replacing it with cool indifference. "He's capable of making his own choices. And he chose _me_."

Lestrade laughs, that empty laugh of his that's more of a breath than anything. "What choice did he have? Even if he wanted something else you'd just yank him away and convince him he didn't."

"Go away, Lestrade, you've played your part now," I sigh, shutting the door. I lean my back against it and listen until I hear him finally clomp back down the stairs, his footfalls slow and uncertain. When he's gone, I close my eyes and tip my head back. John will find out, and he will be incredibly displeased. This was, indeed, a very bad idea. And all the satisfaction it gave me earlier has washed away in the slow drain of post-coital fatigue. I promised John I'd eat, and I'm supposed to be blissed out from sex right now. But I don't feel like acting. I just want to go to bed.

"Sherlock?" John pads out, scrubbing at his hair with a towel, my too-big dressing gown (the spare one that he likes because it's worn thin and soft from age) tied loosely around his tiny frame. "Okay? I thought I heard the door close."

I straighten, give him my best _you-know-how-it-is _smile/shrug combination and yawn, "Lestrade. Came to ask about the case."

"Oh." John's mouth twitches into a frown and then straightens, an enigma. "Right. Takeaway?"

I let him choose the restaurant, let him order, let him answer the door and bring up the food and switch on the telly. And he lets me be.


	2. Chapter 2

**i.**

"You _tosser_," John spits. He's not quite drunk, but he's not sober either.

I draw my dressing gown tighter around me and twist away, pressing my cheek into the cool, rough fabric of the sofa. I tried, earlier, to convince John not to go out. With "the boys", that despicable crew. I tried. I knew Lestrade would tell him, of course, and I can see I was right. But I was already slipping into a black mood earlier (eight days without a case and Lestrade calls _me _the bastard) and the effort it would have taken to keep John here was more than I had to expend. Aside from that, I don't care. Not right now. I'm so intensely bored that maybe this strop John's about to throw will provide some much needed entertainment.

John kicks off his shoes sloppily, clutching at the doorframe. "You _absolute_ tosser." He's not slurring his words, not really, but there's an odd quality to his voice that makes me swivel to look at him. He doesn't really look angry, to my surprise. He looks…tired. John's face is drawn and sprinkled lightly with stubble. His under-eyes are shadowed, his mouth thin.

"Have a nice time?" I say pleasantly, and he looks at me with a smile that doesn't come anywhere close to his eyes.

"Oh, yes." John lurches forward (he's odd that way, my John; when he drinks his coordination goes pear-shaped well before his mind does) and leans on the couch, his hands clenched around the armrest. "Had a chat with our old pal Lestrade."

"Informative, I presume."

John laughs, the sound harsh in the quiet of our flat, and rolls his eyes. "Very." A dark look settles on his face, one I almost never see. "What do you want from me, Sherlock?"

I clamber up from the couch and scoop up my violin. I'm not sure where the bow is, though, so I pluck meaninglessly at the strings. "Everything," I say simply, honestly.

"Everything," he echoes solemnly, easing down on to the couch, into the space I've just vacated. He runs his hands down his face, letting them settle on his cheeks, and sighs. "And what do I give you?"

"Significantly less." I'm not sure that's true, but it's a theory I'm testing. There is more John, more that he hasn't given me, I'm sure…and I want it. If it's there, it should be mine.

"You're not often wrong," John says with the calm of a man who is relying on Dutch courage to do his speaking for him, "but _mate_,when you're _wrong_…" He lets out a low whistle and settles back, his eyes glittering. "I've given you all I have to give, you know that? My time, my energy, my _blood _at times, my future, my fucking heart-" John stops, clears his throat. "What else?" he asks in a much smaller voice. "What else can I give you? What else do I _have_?"

"What do you mean, your future?" I say slowly, still plinking out a scale. "Given up on your dreams, have you? Private practice, pretty wife, sticky-fingered children?"

"I don't dream about anything anymore, Sherlock," John sighs, resigned. "Only you."

That _hurts_, although I don't know precisely why. My future, after all, remains the same. I expect I will carry on taking cases until I'm too old and decrepit to be of any use, and then I will either retire or die. But John…

I muse quietly for a moment, sliding my fingers along the strings, wincing at the way they cut into my calloused fingers.

John breaks the silence, many minutes later, his voice soft and considering. "Lestrade said this isn't healthy. What we have."

"And you think he's right." Not a question; I can hear in John's voice that he agrees.

"Yes."

"And?" I set down the violin abruptly and fold my arms over my chest, scanning his face.

He looks up at me so honestly, then, and whispers, "Healthy or no, I don't want to live without this. Without you."

Something inside of me clenches and aches. I fall to my knees and _crawl_, like a broken child, to him. "John, John." I can't stop saying his name; it's stupid and awful and it makes no sense but I can't stop. Sliding my arms around his waist, I lay my head in his lap and breathe his name over and over until it stops being a word and becomes a nonsense sound, something deep and guttural and as true as my heartbeat. "John."

John hushes me, stroking my hair, my neck, my face, but I don't quiet for a long time. When I finally do it's because my breath is hitching in my throat and it's so _stupid _but now I've gotten what I wanted- everything- and it's too much. "T-take it b-back," I gasp tremulously, only just now aware that I'm shaking.

"Never," John answers fiercely. He lifts my chin and meets my eyes, as steady as he always is, prepared for anything. "Sherlock. Never." I don't resist him as he pulls me up, into his lap, kissing me gently and with an unerring patience that makes me curl into him foolishly. He smells like smoke and beer, and like Lestrade a bit, but mostly he just smells like John. I breathe him in, slow breaths that become deeper by the minute, and when I wake up later still sprawled on the couch, John's head on the armrest and his hand laid limply on my neck, I listen to his gentle snores and think that it's too much, too much, and it's all my fault.

**ii.**

On John's orders, I apologize to Lestrade. He accepts with a stiffness that I've not encountered in him before, in all the years I've known him, but at least he starts bringing me cases again. Things are different between them, too, Lestrade and John; they're more distant, more careful with each other. I desperately want to know what else they discussed on That Night (that awful, searing night three weeks ago) but John has made it clear that he will not discuss it, and that I'm not to ask Lestrade under any circumstances. I've considered violating his wishes as I normally do, of course, but then I think about That Night (me snuffling stupidly, my head pressed in John's lap) and the curiosity is swiftly replaced with something new and bitter, something that aches when I dwell on it too long. So I let it go.

This case is dull. I look at the blood splatter (boring) and the hunk of hair and flesh congealed along the edge of the coffee table (predictable) as well as the angle of the body (yawn-inducing) and stand, blinking in disdain at the frankly appalling lack of intrigue before me. "Accident made to look like murder," I sigh, peeling off my gloves and passing them to John. "How droll."

Lestrade shrugs, not quite meeting my eyes. "You wanted a case. Well, this is what we've got."

_We. _What _we've _got. Impersonal. It's not Lestrade asking for my help, now; it's the Yard, an entity outside himself. Interesting. Telling.

John holds my hand in the cab (which he never does) and that's telling, too. I resent it. It's my fault, of course, for being insecure and for demanding what I didn't really want and didn't think John could or would give, but I still resent it. I told him to take it back, this awful boundless love that weighs me down not like an anchor but like a stone, dragging me under…but he wouldn't. I want to say _I didn't ask for this _but I did, I demanded it, I said "everything" and he gave it to me, just like that. I hold his hand in mine and stare at his fingers- darker than mine and shorter, the contrast highlighted by the way they're interlaced- and I hate him just a little.

**iii.**

"All right?"

I tug the blankets around my head, a clear signal: _go away, I'm sleeping, do not disturb_. But John's been ignoring my signals for ages, and today's no different. He sits down on the edge of my bed with a sigh and trails his hand down the crevasse of my spine, slowly going over every bump with his fingertips. "Sherlock," he says softly, "talk to me. I'm not like you; I can't figure it out just from looking."

Snorting, I pull the blankets tighter around me and squeeze my eyes closed. I haven't spoken to John in four days in the hopes that he'll take his things and go away, but John is strangely stubborn.

"I just don't understand," he sighs, still stroking my spine with a meandering, gentle touch. "I'm here. I've given you everything you asked for. So, now what?"

_That's the problem_, I think sullenly, shifting away from him a little. His hand falls away from my back and I hate- loathe, detest, abhor- that I miss it immediately.

"Okay," John says. And he means it. Even this, even my silence and my rudeness and my total lack of regard, is okay. He'll take it. What am I supposed to do with _that_? It's too much. John stands (the bed groans softly, and even though I know it isn't true I feel like the air grows colder just from him not being near) and stretches, the bones in his back cracking. "I'm going to bed. If you're still not talking to me tomorrow…well, I might go to my sister's this weekend. Give you some time to yourself. Good night, Sherlock." He leaves my room gently, the door closing behind him with a soft snick. I wish he'd slammed it.

**iv.**

His room is dark, but I know the placement of the furniture by heart and so I'm able to make my way to his bed quite stealthily. I undress slowly, very slowly, cautious as I let my clothes fall to the floor, and when I ease into his bed it's with immense care and calculation.

John is small and warm and not nearly as naked as I'd like him to be. I slide down under the covers and shift until I'm pressed against him, my hands moving over him lightly, a feather touch. My lips go to his neck and he grumbles in his sleep, turning over so his back is to me and huffing out a scattered sigh. I'm not thwarted. I curl around him, snaking my arm up his chest and kissing his ear, the nape of his neck. He shifts a little, his hips coming closer to me, and I smile against his back. Is this Not Good? I've never asked him. Considering how amenable John is awake I doubt he'd much mind while asleep. Still, perhaps I should wake him.

"Mmm," John mutters, a low and sleepy rumble. He shifts even closer, his uppermost leg looping over mine and entangling us. Is he awake? I kiss his shoulder, nip it gently, but he remains quiet, his breathing slow and steady. No, not awake. Still…

I'm already painfully hard. I rut against him slowly, gently, and he lets out a long breath as he rocks back into me, still sleeping even as my hand drags to his hip and fiddles with the band of his pyjama bottoms. I want to take them down, but is that okay? Maybe while John was at his sister's he changed his mind, decided against me. Maybe this wouldn't be welcome at all if he were awake. I could find out. Wake him up, ask him. I could. I probably should.

With the same unwavering care I use to handle volatile chemicals, I work his pyjamas down from his hips and slowly, slowly to his knees. He mumbles, syllables that are slurred and then discarded, but he doesn't wake. I run my hand up the length of his bare thigh and shudder with need for him. I should definitely wake him up now; there's no doubt in my mind. But with the same gentle caution, I slide my hand along the smooth skin of his abdomen and down lower, slower, to the soft shock of curls and then finally, gratifyingly, to the warmth of his half-hard penis, letting it grow firmer in my hand.

"Ah," John mutters, rocking against me, his hand coming up and covering mine. I freeze until he settles, sweetly sighing his way back into sleep, and when his breath evens out I allow myself to stroke him very, very carefully, my fingers loose and trailing at a pace that makes me shiver for more. It's not enough, this contact, however sweet, and so I shift my free arm out from under me and slick my hand, licking and spitting quietly on my fingers before stroking myself with a quicker, but still unbearably gentle, rhythm. Thus prepared, I gently press my cock between the soft flesh of John's thighs and thrust shallowly, nervously, my breath quietly ragged and my ears straining for any change in his breathing. It does change, growing a bit less deep as my strokes become firmer and my hips press softly against him, but he doesn't wake up. It's not as nice as fucking him the regular way, this little set-up I've devised, but it's effective and the edge of worry makes it more interesting, more desperate. I kiss his neck, suck at the skin and gasp quietly at the way he works with me, even now, fast asleep, his body moving into mine with perfect symmetry.

"Ah, _fuck_," John groans, pressing more fully against me. He turns his head and kisses me softly, his lips ghosting against mine in such a messy way that I know he's still sleeping, his body reacting without him (against his will?) and without any knowledge of what it's doing. I deepen this kiss, panting into his open mouth as I thrust harder, faster, unable to stop myself from increasing the pace. John's moaning softly, so softly, and when he comes he cries out, "Ah!" and stiffens, inadvertently tightening his hold on my cock and bringing me right to the edge myself, his murmured, reverent whisper of, "yes, _Sherlock_," pushing me over entirely. For such an unusual method of gaining friction, my orgasm is staggering. I'm lost, completely lost in a rush of white blindness, and when I regain some small measure of awareness I realize that I'm gasping loudly and clutching John's hip so tightly that he must, absolutely must, have been woken by it.

Confirmation of this belief is received in the form of John's low chuckle. "Missed me?" he asks, a bit breathlessly, and he shifts over enough that he can look into my eyes, his own glittering in the darkness.

"Terribly," I answer, kissing him, and I'm glad he's awake now because when he kisses me back it feels _real_, not a ghost of a kiss but the real thing, deep and trembling and good. I realize a bit belatedly that he must be uncomfortable (semen on his thighs and stomach, pyjamas still tangled around his knees, bad shoulder pressed into the mattress) but when I try to move away he clutches my hip and shakes his head, the movement almost imperceptible with only the pale moonlight from the sheer-curtained window casting any light in the room.

"Stay," he whispers, kissing me again, so I do.

**v.**

They're fighting, John and Lestrade, and I don't think it's self-centered to assume the reason involves me. They've been pretending they aren't fighting, of course, which I can't understand since surely both of them know by now that I see everything. At the Yard signing paperwork (stacks and stacks of the stuff, as though it's been saved up all year…and probably it has, as unwilling as I usually am to deal with this menial task), John and Lestrade make pleasant small talk (the worst variety of chatter) and pretend to quibble over a pen. Lestrade brings John coffee; John shoots Lestrade a tight and mirthless smile before reminding him that he does not, in fact, take sugar. He lets it cool, occasionally reaching for it and then stopping himself short, and I have to stifle my laughter. My John, my overly polite John, being so quietly rude and thinking I won't notice. It's almost cute.

Lestrade shuffles through files, sighing to himself, and John shoots him a look of such pure annoyance that I _do _laugh, a quick barking laugh that bubbles out of me unbidden, and they both turn to look at me with a mixture of confusion and dread etched all over their faces. "Let me see your phone, John," I say, smiling, and John furrows his brow but obeys wordlessly. I lean back in my chair as they go back to signing and open John's inbox, tapping Lestrade's name and humming a bit under my breath. I scroll back to last weekend, to John's long nights at Harry's before I climbed into his bed and made things better two nights ago.

_I dropped by and Sherlock said you were out. Everything okay?_

_Fine. I'm at my sister's for the weekend. JW _(This makes me smile, because I'm constantly trying to impinge on John the importance of a text signature.)

_All right. Just seemed like Sherlock was in bit of a way. I know how he gets. If you need to talk, ring me._

_Not sure that's a great idea, Greg. JW _(Informality. I don't like that.)

_Because he'll be jealous, or because you might actually enjoy talking to me?_

_Both. _(I bristle.) _Please stop texting me. _(I soften.) _JW_

The next text is from the following morning:

_That was uncalled for. I'm sorry. Things have just been…difficult. JW_

_You can talk to me, if you want to._

_Or we could meet for pints or something, tonight?_

_Not sure where your sis lives but if it's within city limits I think I can make it._

_Very bad idea. JW_

_Is it, though?_

_Yes. JW_

I tap my finger on my bottom lip and look at that text for a long, silent moment. John's normally a little more carefree with his affirmatives. He favours "yeah" or "yep" or even, if he's feeling particularly devolved, "uh huh". A firm, solid "yes" suggests an unusual state of mind, but was he being so firm with Lestrade, or with himself?

The next text in the list isn't until hours later, nearly dusk on Saturday night, and the contents make me sneer:

_I'm leaving the Yard now, if you wanted to get those pints. Offer is still open. _

_Not sure coming back to my sister's reeking of bitter is the best idea, considering she's a recovering alcoholic. JW _(Good. Very good.)

_I have a couch. It's quite comfy, even. _(Less good.)

_Terrible idea. JW_

_Probably your worst. JW_

_Good point._

_I have a bed. It's rather cozy, too._

I look up sharply at Lestrade, who's chewing on his pencap and scratching away at one of his files. I should hit him. My gaze wanders to John. Sighing, he looks up and smiles at me, the little unsteady smile of his that means "all right?" and I feel better, because he wouldn't smile at me like that if something had happened. I look back at John's mobile and keep reading, my teeth grinding.

_No, I was wrong. -That- was your worst idea yet. JW_

_You can't possibly know that, as you haven't tried it yet. Could be a very good idea._

_Or you could just mope at your sister's._

_Either way, suit yourself._

_Hahaha I really…I don't even know what to say. Have you already started drinking, then? JW_

_No, but I'd like to. Meet me?_

_All right. _(My eyes widen.) _Give me an hour. I'll phone you with directions. JW_

_Really? This isn't some sort of a joke is it, your sister taking the piss or whatever. You really want to?_

_I really want to go to a pub, yes. I'm choosing to ignore your bolder implications. JW_

_Well, hey. Can't fault a man for trying. Talk to you soon._

That's all from Saturday, and my worry hasn't exactly been alleviated. But I look up at John, who still seems as placid and staid as he ever has, and I take a deep breath before continuing on to Sundays texts.

_Would you answer your phone please?_

_I apologized more times than I can count, but I'll keep on if you want. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. See?_

_John, come on._

_Christ, it's not even half eight. Give it a rest. JW_

_Just tell me things are okay and I'll let it go, I swear._

_Things are definitely not okay. Please leave me alone. JW_

_For work's sake, let's be civil. But don't text me again. JW_

_All right. I deserve that. God, I'm sorry John. I'm an idiot._

There are no texts after that. I reread them rapidly, my eyes narrowed. What happened? Why hasn't John told me about it? Flitting my gaze upwards, I try to deduce it out of them but days after the fact, with both of them trying their best to act normal, it's difficult. There's the faint shadow of a bruise on Lestrade's chin that draws my attention, and both of them seem tense, angry. A physical fight? Why? I look back over at John and he smiles at me again (but why is his smile embarrassed?) and then takes his phone from my slackened fingers, slipping it into his pocket and giving one quick, unhappy look at Lestrade before turning his attention back to the files on the desk, signing each one with a preposterously neat and curling _John H. Watson, MD _in a style so orderly and easy to read that it's hard to believe him a doctor at all.

Distractedly I reach over and grab some files myself, scratching out my own signature. One can easily make sense of the _S _and the _H _but the rest is satisfyingly illegible. Whatever Lestrade did to my John, I decide, I will find out. And if it was as bad as it seems, I'll hurt him. Simple. I scratch out another signature and smile at it, my mind working quickly. Simple.


	3. Chapter 3

**i.**

"All right." I settle my back against the door of the cab and fold my hands in my lap, eyes trained on John, on his expressions and the minute but obvious things the lines of his face can and will tell me. "Explain."

John expected this line of inquiry, I see. "Lestrade said something to me that I didn't appreciate," John says placidly, mirroring my pose, "so I decked him. Then he chased me out into the street, apologizing all the while, and I threatened to deck him again." A hint of a smile tugs at John's lips. "He didn't seem keen on that, if you can believe it. Then I hopped a cab, went back to my sister's, paced her spare room all night, paced around the city all day, came home, went straight away to bed, and woke up to you coming all over my legs. I think that should just about cover it."

Not quite. I tap my fingers on the seat between us. "He didn't touch you?"

"Hugged me when he first got to the pub," John recites, his tone amiable but his eyes betraying some of his discomfort, "but beyond that, no."

"Why did you agree to meet him at all?"

A slight falter in John's smile. "You weren't talking to me," he explains, his eyes shifting focus to the window behind me. "And Harry was being…well, Harry. I just wanted to feel…normal, for awhile. I honestly thought he was joking about the whole," he clears his throat, looks at me, licks his lips nervously, "bed thing."

"Normal?" I ask, letting my distaste colour the word.

John laughs, not quite happily. "Yes, normal. As much as it's a dirty word to you, sometimes I rather enjoy the feeling."

"After such a confession," I joke, taking his hand, "I may never look at you the same." John's relief nearly satisfies me. But not quite. "What did Lestrade say to you?"

John's change in posture is immediate and worrying. He straightens, his eyes narrowing and his mouth shifting into a small, thin line. "It's not important," he says quickly, commandingly, his tone saying _leave it alone._

"I think I can judge that for myself." My tone is pleasant, conversational, but I know my eyes must be as cold and pale as ice.

"Sherlock, please let it go," John says, not even slightly begging. If anything, he's warning me.

Well, I've never let threats bother me before. "Tell me," I smile, tightening my grip on his hand. "Or is it a secret? Just between you and Lestrade?"

"Don't." Firm. Angry. John's eyebrows are pulled together, his mouth twisted in a frown. I have to know; I must. "Don't start with that."

And now I've exhausted my usual routes of manipulation (asking nicely; being nasty; emotional blackmail), so I turn to the old standby: logical appeal. "If the roles were reversed," I explain calmly, "you would want to know. Wouldn't you?"

There, I've got him now. John is still frowning, but he rubs the back of his neck absently and lets out a slow breath, huffing the air from his nostrils in a way that's meant to illustrate reluctance. I wait patiently, and then at last he pulls in a deep breath and nods. "Fine," he says (redundantly, since his body has already told me as much), "but I warn you: it's mortifying. I've never been more embarrassed in my life."

"Oh?" My eyebrow climbs slightly; this _will _be interesting.

Taking another deep breath, he mumbles, "He said…he said he liked the way I sounded. When we were…God, Sherlock, you know." Straightening his back and setting his jaw stubbornly, John adds, in a low voice so the cabbie won't hear, "He said that I…I moaned beautifully. That thinking about it kept him up at night." John's eyes are glinting darkly, his posture suddenly military.

My hands have clenched to fists. That is not what I expected to hear, not what I planned at all. Lestrade was supposed to hear those sounds and feel nothing but devastation, heartache…to think that he's been lying in bed imagining John, _my _John, and that I've given him the fodder for it…

I'm pulled away from this line of thinking by John's sudden angry outburst: "What did he think I'd do? Blush like a schoolgirl?" He balls up his fists, his eyes flashing. "I was a soldier for God's sake! I'm a doctor! I'm a respectable man!"

All true statements, yes, but I'm not sure about the correlation between them and what Lestrade said. I observe him for a moment in silence, inspecting his body language, the tight set of his jaw and the lift of his chin. "He upset your dignity?" I wager, not baffled but not quite in complete understanding either.

John narrows his eyes at me. "Get off your high horse. I've seen you throw a strop for _days _because somebody managed to wound your fragile pride, so don't make me feel like an idiot for this."

Oh, this is amusing. John's _I'm-not-gay _habits are so dyed-in-the-wool that even regular sex with a man can't flush them out entirely. I suppose he's worked himself into a tizzy because Lestrade overheard _me _fucking _him_, and not the other way around. Poor dear. But there's something to the tinge of colour scattered across his cheeks that is dredging up my curiosity.

"Did you consider it? His offer?" I ask suddenly, searching his face.

He loses some of his color instantly, dark eyes widening. "No. Of course not." A reflexive swallow. "Definitely not."

"That last bit." I run my thumb across my bottom lip and lean in closer, my eyes hunting within his. "Say that last bit again. Exactly as you said it before."

"Definitely not," John says, not quite with the same intonation. This time there's almost a question mark at the end, and the sound if it causes my lips to part in an unspoken: _oh_. "Sherlock-" he begins hurriedly, but I lift up my hands and he slips into silence.

"It's fine," I say, truthfully, and John's relief makes it easier for him to accept this next part, the lie. "I believe you."

John slumps back against the seat, and I stare out the window, thinking. _Interesting._

**ii.**

An errant thought has been forming slowly, and though I've locked it away in some forgotten cupboard in the recesses of my mind I can still hear it there, scratching, begging to be dragged out into the light and scrutinized, examined, brought to fruition. I tiptoe around it carefully, understanding very well that it falls under the category of Extremely Not Good (as per my many discussions with John on the subject of Good vs Not Good) but I'm not used to willful ignorance and it's hard, so hard, to keep denying myself the jagged pleasure of that tiny little thought. It gets harder as the weeks trickle by, as the air cools and Lestrade's and John's tempers cool as well, as John pulls out his musty jumpers and runs them all in a load of laundry that comes out soft and warm and smelling of nothing at all but laundry soap, as cab rides are replaced with long walks in crisp, delightful weather and then are replaced with cab rides once again as the air grows bitter and the wind rushes in. I hold on to that thought for so long, for longer than I would've believed myself capable, but finally, finally, I can't hold on to it any longer.

John goes to the pub with "the boys", somewhat wary of the combination of Lestrade in a casual atmosphere and alcohol, but not so hesitant that he dares continuing to huddle up at home with me (I'm in a dark mood and every time he switches on the telly or the radio I switch it back off and glare at him). Once he's gone I lie on the floor and close my eyes, my hands folded over my chest, and carefully- oh so carefully- I unlock the door that's holding back that thought and I take it up into my arms, gently, and carry it out into the light.

_Wouldn't you like to see_, the thought whispers softly, _exactly how much John will give?_

**iii.**

I could call it an experiment, but the conditions will not exactly be up to laboratory snuff.

I could call it a game, but I can't imagine that any of us will win, in the end.

I could call it what is- a bad idea- but I'm not prone to guilt or stating the obvious.

In the end, I don't call it anything at all. It just is.

**iv.**

John is reading comments on his blog (a slightly self-satisfied quirk of a smile decorating his wonderfully expressive face) and eating toast in a slow, distracted way that suggests habit rather than hunger. He's serious that way, my John, about breakfast.

Here are some facts to consider as John plows his way through two cups of tea and a tablespoon and a half of marmalade:

John believes quite solemnly in the righteous nature of monogamy.

Were John not with me, he would probably be willing to have sex with Lestrade.

I am intensely curious about John's sex life. I have asked him more questions about his past partners and experiences than I have about…nearly anything. (My offer to create a set of charts and tables using the information provided went sadly ignored.)

The opportunities for conducting a field study of sorts on my favorite topic (John engaged in sexual activity) have all been marred by my less than sober state of mind during these encounters.

Lestrade wants to have sex with John. John wants to have sex with Lestrade (however much self-denial he cloaks the fact with, it still remains). I want to watch John having sex (and even the sharp-clawed beast in my chest is murmuring with interest, suddenly).

The results of these musings seem straight-forward, and yet I'm still perfectly aware of how unwelcome the suggestion will be when I finally bring it up. I'm very good at manipulation but if it's too overt, John will clam up and the topic will become Off-Limits (joining its brethren Afghanistan and What Life Was Like During Those Three Years) so I must tread carefully.

"John."

The man in question looks up at me and smiles vaguely, a bit of toast-crumb on his lower lip. "Mm?"

I take a sip of my coffee and stare at him from over the rim, and when I set down the mug I say, "I love you." John lights up (those words are very, very rare in 221B) and smiles down at the remains of his toast, and I slip away from the table whistling.

**v.**

I spend the next three weeks carefully setting things up. I'm as sweet to John as I can be without arousing suspicion: I nuzzle against him when we're in bed together; I actually _sleep _on a few occasions at the same time he's sleeping (which is, apparently, an intimate thing to do); I compliment one of his less garish jumpers and comb his hair for him one morning "just because". I even manage to buy the milk (twice!) and some other things which John inspects with his lips pulled in like he's trying not to laugh at my effort. (It seems that offering to do the shopping and then coming home with a jug of milk, a box of baking powder, a tin of biscuits, and a jar of olives is not exactly on.)

In the meantime, I begin planning the more logistical side of things. I want to watch, and I don't think a video feed will satisfy. (Whatever objections John might have to the idea of being recorded, I hardly care, but I'm glad I won't have to expend time and energy arguing about it later.) I have absolutely no interest in participating (what would be the point of that?) and I doubt very seriously that either John or Lestrade would be comfortable with me sitting on the edge of the bed, taking notes and humming in approval. So, I need some more covert means of observation.

As luck would have it, John's is an attic bedroom and the walls up there are set wide, with a meter of space between John's bedroom wall and the actual anterior wall of the flat. It's meant for storage, but the small space satisfies my needs perfectly. I buy a foldaway chair and when John is out one afternoon (attending something dull; a medical lecture but not on anything interesting, just the flu) I install the chair in such a way that my vantage point from the bed is sidelong. I can see the door head-on, which I like, but because I don't want to take any chances I also install several mirrors throughout the room. If John notices, he doesn't say anything. Maybe he thinks I've put them up for decoration or for some safety reason. Either way, the mirrors allow me to see every inch of the room from my hidey-hole once I've drilled a small opening in the wall and covered it carefully with a square of mesh cloth in the same awful turquoise as the fading wallpaper that lines John's room. It isn't flawless, certainly, but I expect Lestrade to be in such a state when the time comes that he'll hardly see fit to examine the wallpaper, and I don't think John will notice it at all. The preparations, both of John and of the room, have been completed to my contentment. Now it's time to begin.

**vi.**

"I want you to do something for me."

We're in the bath, John lying in the space between my legs (and thank God for old bathtubs because even in this round old relic my knees feel cramped) with his head laid back and his eyes closed. "Anything, love," he sighs before heaving a yawn. It's been a long day, admittedly, but I want to strike now, while I know he's relaxed and loose-limbed with drowsiness.

His answer is exactly the one I hoped to get. Smiling, I kiss his temple and say, gently, "I want you to answer the question I'm about to ask you with complete honesty. Can you do that for me?" John tenses a little against me, which I expect, but he agrees- however cautiously- and so I press on: "If I asked you to do it, would you have sex with Lestrade?"

"What?" John sits up and twists awkwardly, the water splashing around us. "What are you on about?"

"Lestrade. Sex. Would you?" I reach for him and try to make him lie back down, but he resists, slipping away and out of the bathtub instead. Not good.

"Sherlock, what is this?" He yanks on my spare dressing gown and sinks down onto the toilet seat, his arms folded tetchily. "Why are you asking me this? And with things finally going back to normal…"

That's true, things have been leveling out. But that thought, that damned thought! "John, please calm down," I say in what I hope sounds like a reassuring voice. "I'm saying if _I _asked you. If it was something _I _wanted."

John blinks at me, incredulous. "Is it something you want?"

"That's not answering the question."

Scowl deepening, John shakes his head. "This is ridiculous. No. Your answer is no. Satisfied?"

"I asked you to be honest," I remind him quietly, and his eyes widen slightly. "You're not being honest."

"Sherlock." John always sounds so breathless when I've caught him in a lie. I shift a little in the water (which is too low now, without John displacing it to its proper height) and lean my arms on the edge of the tub, watching him eagerly as he stares at the floor and says, slowly, "I don't…"

"If it was something we all wanted," I spell out, my voice thoughtful, "and I asked you to do it, would you?"

"No," John says immediately, and I frown.

"No? What do you mean, 'no'?"

"You're a genius and you don't understand the word 'no'?" Ah, sarcasm. John's getting defensive.

"I don't understand it in this context. Explain." I slip out of the bathtub as well, leaving the tepid water behind (John will drain it eventually, I suppose) and toweling off.

"This is a dangerous conversation," John says softly.

I smile at him- a lean, slow smile. "You like dangerous."

"Not this kind."

"Just…help me to understand," I insist, yanking on my own robe and sitting carefully (nearly precariously) on the edge of the tub, facing John. "What exactly would hold you back?"

John shrugs, swallows, but I wait. I can be patient when I must. At last, he pulls his arms around himself and admits, "It wouldn't be right to Lestrade, doing something like that. Because he has…stronger feelings. Than I do." Looking up suddenly, he rushes, "Not that I- have feelings, for Lestrade. It's not like that. I mean-"

"It's fine," I say, smiling. "You find him attractive, that's all. I know. It's _fine._"

Looking at his hands, John flushes and whispers, "How is that fine? Last year I couldn't talk to him at a crime scene without you getting all furious and dragging me away."

I've got him closer to where I want him, now. Going to my knees, I wriggle into the space between John's legs and look up at him, my hand reaching up to stroke his face. "I want to make you happy," I say, not entirely truthfully and not entirely dishonestly. He unwraps his arms from his chest and slips his hands under my bathrobe, sliding them along my ribcage and making me tingle. "And you made me a promise."

Looking slightly bewildered and more than a little off balance, John leans in towards me and kisses me once, twice, slow kisses before mumbling, "A promise?"

"Yes." I grab his hips gently and tug him towards me until his groin is pressed against my stomach. "Remember? I said 'everything'."

"I remember," he says quietly, his breathes growing shallower as his hands drag around to my back.

"Everything doesn't mean you pick and choose, John," I explain, as if I were speaking to a child. John stares at me, his eyes oddly murky and his mouth wearing the smallest of frowns. "Everything means everything. It means that this," I grab his hips more roughly, digging my nails in, and he gasps, "this body, belongs to me. Doesn't it?"

John's hands are trembling against my skin and his eyes are wide, impossibly wide, but the pupils are blown open and his lips are parting and I'm sure, absolutely sure that he's going to say yes. Except he doesn't. The moment grows and grows, a long stretch of time where we're only looking at each other, frozen, and I'm resigning myself to a loss and preparing to backtrack when he swallows slightly and then nods, the tiniest of movements, so small that I might not have caught it if I hadn't been mere inches away and watching him quite so closely.

I carefully _don't _sag with relief, because showing any outward sign of insecurity right now will ruin everything. Instead I lean up and say, "Good," before kissing him, not gently like before but roughly, hungrily, and that he leans down to meet me with equal hunger tells me that the game (_no, not a game, because games have winners_) is on.

**vii.**

I've been toying with John's phone for hours, considering the phrasing and timing and everything else. John, I think, has accepted his role, however remorsefully, but three days have passed since our conversation in the bathroom and I'm anxious to get on with the proceedings. If I wait too long John will surely change his mind, come to his senses (I've been keeping him in a state of near constant arousal for three long days, but John's no teenage boy and he'll have to gain some form of release soon, I'm sure) but if I hurry, I may muck things up.

Careful, careful.

I open a new text and type out a message, watching the letters appear with consideration.

_Sherlock's gone. He said it's over. I don't know what to do. Please, come over. I need you. JW_

Too whiny? Too maudlin? Hmm. I set my thumb on the back button and watch the letters disappear.

_Are you busy? JW_

That seems more like John. I know Lestrade isn't busy, because I know his schedule at work and with his children, but John probably wouldn't be sure. I send it and then wait the forty-two seconds it takes for John's mobile to ping lightly.

John looks up from his position on the couch, his expression questioning, but I ignore him and read.

_Not really, why?_

Hmm. Interesting. "Not really" denotes a sort of false casualness, like Lestrade wants to imply to John that he might be busy unless something better comes along. The "why", though, belies his eagerness.

_Come over? JW_

Nineteen seconds later: _Does Sherlock need something?_

Oh, ho.

_No, Mycroft dragged him off to his mum's. He won't be back until tomorrow. JW_

A full three minutes and fifty-four seconds passes before Lestrade sends his next text.

_Is everything okay?_

"Who are you texting?" John asks, only half-interested (the benefits of my regular phone theft) and I continue to ignore him as I tap out a response.

_Remember what we talked about before? I changed my mind. Come over. JW_

This is something of a risk, because I don't know for a fact that Lestrade suggested an affair in any realistic way, in a way that would have lent to conversation and John patiently explaining his denial. But I'm pretty sure it happened That Night (which seems like ages ago now) and I tend to make reasonably sound inferences.

Thirty-one seconds: _John, are you sure?_

Bingo.

_Very. I need this. Please come over. JW_

I'm chuckling softly to myself, I know, and John is now eyeing me askance and suspecting foul play, but I can't hold back the grin that breaks across my face when Lestrade replies, forty-nine seconds later.

_Jesus. Okay. I'll be there as soon as I can. Just give me fifteen minutes or so, all right?_

I almost respond with a terse "yes, fine", I'm so eager to get things going, but instead I respond with "okay, hurry, I'll be up on the third floor" and toss John the phone, laughing.

"Lord, what have you done?" John asks, not even close to suspecting correctly, and as he sits up and begins to read his texts his jaw slackens and his eyes go round and he breathes, again, "Oh _no_, Sherlock, what have you done?"

Clapping my hands together, I beam at him before tugging him up from the sofa and nearly dragging him behind me towards the stairs. "Come on, John, placement is key! It's almost show-time!"


	4. Chapter 4

**i.**

It takes some arguing (John keeps repeating the word "hypothetical", as though I ever deal in hypotheticals that don't relate back to something real and important) and some hurried groping (it's amazing what I can convince John to do so long as I request it while making use of a well-placed hand or mouth) but I finally convince the man to follow me upstairs to wait for Lestrade. John keeps muttering, "I can't believe I'm doing this," in honest disbelief, but that's all the better because his shock will keep him from over-thinking things and changing his mind. I settle him on the bed, not suggestively but just lightly perched with his hands in his lap, and then quickly dash over to the small board in the corner that lets into the storage area and ply it away. With a wink towards John, I slip into the storage section and pull the board back into place behind me, quickly padding over to my waiting chair and sinking down, my heart beating a quick rhythm in my chest. Quieting my breath, I press my eye to the disguised opening and wait.

I don't have to wait long; John's theatrics take up enough time that I'm barely settled before I hear Lestrade's heavy footfalls downstairs. The steps creak as he climbs them quickly and John throws me one quick look (his eyes dark and his mouth small, his shoulders straight, his eyebrows pulled together) before turning back to the door just as it bursts open.

An odd thing happens, then. Lestrade stands in the open doorway, his mouth agape and his silver hair mussed, and he rakes over John with the most troubled gaze I've ever seen him wear. John's hands leave his lap slowly and settle on either side of him, clutching (unconsciously, I suspect) at the bedsheets, but aside from that neither of them move or speak for several long moments. I examine John's face in one of the mirrors and feel mostly unsurprised by its contents (discomfort; anxiety; overwhelming resignation; a touch of self-loathing) but the undisguised and authentic _want _I see takes me aback. It's mirrored in Lestrade's face, in the long look they share that stretches until the air is taut with it. Finally, after what could have been hours or only seconds, Lestrade says: "John." I've never heard so many inflections in one word. It's a question and it's praise and it's a warning and it's a plea; it's just one small syllable but every emotion Lestrade has ever felt is hanging in it and I realize all at once that John was right, that doing this to Lestrade was incalculably cruel (after all, I have no intentions of letting him this close to John again).

I expect John to glance at the mirrors quite frequently in an attempt to meet my eyes- I've even warned him against exactly that, before Lestrade arrived- but I can plainly see the impulse never takes hold of him. To my intense irritation, he only has eyes for Lestrade. Without breaking eye contact, John licks his lips (that nervous motion, nothing calculated about it) and whispers, "Please."

After all the hesitation and build-up I assume Lestrade will take things slowly, but again this encounter surprises me. At John's whispered plea he crosses the room in only a few strides and presses John to the bed, pulling him into his arms and kissing him so thoroughly that even I'm breathless with it. John groans, low and deep, and drags his legs up, wrapping them around Lestrade immediately. Amazingly, they're already bucking against each other like desperate teenagers, Lestrade working his mouth down John's neck as John tips his head back and arches his back, his hands tightening and tugging at Lestrade's shirt.

Unbelievable.

John's eyes are closed and he's gasping; Lestrade is unbuttoning his own shirt with an expert's ease. Tugging it down his shoulders, he tosses it to the floor and helps John out of his jumper with only minor fumbling. They kiss again, greedily, but when John's hands fall to Lestrade's belt he pulls his mouth away and sets his forehead against John's, panting, "God, I wanted this," and John whispers, "Me too, me too."

My eyes widen. This isn't news, this revelation, but it still bothers me immensely. When it's framed that way, as a heated confession in a moment of lust, it sounds much more…intense. My observations haven't prepared me for this.

Lestrade makes a hungry noise that draws my attention back to the bed. Stupid, stupid! I made sure to angle each mirror just so, but I never considered that their actual bodies might get in the way; I can't see what John's doing with his hands, not with Lestrade pressed against him so closely- but I can guess. Lestrade is making small, choked-off noises against John's mouth and thrusting weakly, his hands searching John's body impatiently as though he can't feel enough at once to satisfy him. Then John pushes him away (why?) and commands, "Take those off," (oh) and Lestrade obeys at once, shimmying out of his trousers so quickly I don't even get to see his prick before he's pressed against John again.

I don't huff out a breath, but I'd like to. I put so much work into seeing this moment and Lestrade won't even let me _see _anything. It's not really his fault, I suppose, since he doesn't know I'm watching, but still. I wish he'd stop covering John so completely and put a little bit of space between them, but it seems like Lestrade can't bear to _not _touch him with as much of his own skin as possible. How frustrating.

Some frantic movements; John is struggling with his jeans, yanking at them even as Lestrade is pressing him down into the mattress. A gasp as he finally gets his jeans down from his hips and around his knees; a groan as they slide together, one of John's hands between them (and Lestrade so infuriatingly close to him that I can't see anything worthwhile) and the other digging sharply into Lestrade's back.

"I don't have any condoms," John rasps, his mouth on Lestrade's neck, and Lestrade growls, "Shit. Shit- no, I do, hang on." And finally (finally!) he pulls away from John (revealing a penis that's got a bit more girth than mine, but isn't as long) and stoops to dig around in his trouser pockets. John kicks his jeans off the rest of the way and quickly tugs off his socks, and when he lays back down I can see the deep flush that's spread all the way down his chest and to his belly. He's still propped up on his elbows, though, watching Lestrade, and it's only in the mirror that I can see how dark his eyes are and the way he's biting at his bottom lip.

Lestrade stands and there's a half-beat of awkwardness when he's not sure who should be wearing the condom, but then John takes it from him (a touch of anxiousness peppers Lestrade's features) and opens it before sliding it on Lestrade's prick (and now the anxiousness has been replaced with relief and a touch of awe) and saying, shakily, "There's lube in the drawer." He points at his bedside table, his finger trembling in the air for a second, and Lestrade plucks his hand out of the air and trails kisses down it to his wrist, his voice thick as he sighs, "God, John…"

I shift a little impatiently in my chair as Lestrade fetches the lube and applies it a touch too liberally to both himself and John. They're kissing again, deep open-mouthed kisses that seem to merge into each other one after the other, and I fidget again as Lestrade makes to finger John open-

But then John grabs his hand and pushes it away, giving a small and sloppy shake of the head, and growls, "I don't need it; just fuck me," and my eyes jump wide again.

"Christ, yes," Lestrade breathes, nodding as he presses their bodies together again. "God help me."

John laughs a little at that, a deep throaty laugh that takes me by surprise, and runs his hands along the length of Lestrade's chest as Lestrade lines up their hips and adjusts the angles. For a moment they're just breathing together, their eyes locked, and then John arches up all at once with a loud, low cry, his hands scratching their way to Lestrade's shoulders as Lestrade dips his head and settles his face into the crook of John's neck.

I've never heard John moan like this, ever. It sounds more like he's sobbing, and the look on his face says _pain_. I'm halfway on my feet, ready to stop Lestrade hurting him any further, when John gasps, "Yes, yes, God, yes," and I sink back down with my brow furrowed and my stomach clenched.

Fact: John has only ever been fucked by me (and I've never fucked anyone but John).

Fact: John has never had any basis for comparison (unless he had a particularly adventurous girlfriend he's never mentioned).

Fact: It might have been mediocre, our sex life, and neither of us would have ever known.

I feel a bit sick as I continue to watch them move against each other, Lestrade thrusting deeply and John sobbing out those deep, awful moans. The bed is creaking and their skin is slapping and Lestrade is panting and I don't want to hear any of this anymore. John makes a particularly heartfelt sound and Lestrade chuckles (chuckles!) before sighing breathlessly, "God, that's beautiful. So fucking beautiful. Fuck, I wanted this."

John doesn't answer and I can see why, from the way he's tossing and turning. They've barely been at it and Lestrade's yet to touch his cock _once _from what I've seen, but John (_my_ John, my slutty little soldier) is already so close it doesn't matter. Lestrade's kissing his neck, his jaw, and then John bursts out: "God! God!" and shudders all over, his eyes screwed up tight.

"Christ!" Lestrade cries, gasping now. I can't believe it. Lestrade's hands haven't left the bed since they started, and John's have been too busy scratching at Lestrade for him to touch himself. Amazing. I don't know whether to be furious or astonished. John lets out a trembling "Fuu-uuuu-uuck" and then quickly, roughly pushes Lestrade away, his breath ragged and broken as he mutters, "I can't, I can't…"

Lestrade, the idiot, actually laughs and leans back over John, tugging off the condom and pulling at his own prick as he pants, "Too much for you, sweetheart?"

I fully expect John to hit him again, but instead John just drapes an arm over his eyes, still shaking all over, and hisses, "_Fuck._" He doesn't resist as Lestrade pushes his arm gently away and kisses him, nor does he tug his hand back when Lestrade circles it around his cock and slides it up, down, up, down. Instead John picks up the motion almost lazily, his breath still harsh and his eyes still closed, and when Lestrades comes (with a little groan and a huffed laugh) he idly brings his hand up to his mouth and licks the mess away, as though he doesn't realize what he's doing.

"Jesus," Lestrade says softly, slumping down beside him. "We should have done that ages ago." John says nothing, doesn't open his eyes, just breathes and trembles, and Lestrade turns over on his side and trails his hand over John's belly. "All right, sunshine?"

"Mmmf," John manages, and Lestrade laughs again, putting his head down on John's shoulder. When they start kissing again, slower this time, I decide it's time to send Lestrade home. I pull out my mobile and silently tap out a text. Three seconds later, John's own phone buzzes on the nightstand.

"That's you, dove," Lestrade says with a sigh. John acknowledges him with a half-nod and Lestrade, still chuckling, asks, "Want me to get it?"

"Please," John croaks. Lestrade slides off the bed (kissing John's stomach once on the way) and scoops up the mobile. He tries to hand it to John, but it slips right out of John's hand and so, with another gravelly laugh, Lestrade suggests in a teasing tone, "Shall I read it for you, sweetheart?"

John nods, and Lestrade opens the text. His eyes widen. "Oh, shit."

I know what he's just read, because I sent it: _Escaped Mycroft's clutches. Be home in five. SH_

"Hell," Lestrade mutters darkly. "Sherlock's on his way."

"Fuck," John mumbles half-heartedly, and Lestrade gives him a strange look before setting the phone down and hurriedly tugging on his clothes.

As he's doing up his buttons, he says, "John, I mean this in the nicest possible way, right? But you look like you've just been shagged into the ground, darlin'. You might want to pop into the loo and get yourself together."

It seems like a struggle for John to sit up, and when he does he only yawns mightily from the edge of the bed. Lestrade gives him a look so full of endearment that I make a face as he scoops John into his arms, saying, "All right, then. Come on." He kisses John's forehead and helps him to his feet and John gratefully slips his arm around his waist, sighing, "I'm starting to come to, I think," which sets Lestrade off laughing again. I've never seen the man so damn happy in all the time I've known him. They leave the bedroom and I listen to their stifled chatter as they move through the hall and down the stairs. The shower kicks on; the front door opens and closes. Footsteps on the lower stairs. Straining, I can just barely hear the outside door close with a small, muffled bang.

I realize I'm a bit shaken when I make my way out into John's bedroom and catch sight of my face, pale and peaky, in one of the mirrors. I will my features into a mask of total impassivity before I go downstairs, my feet heavy. The shower is still running, but there none of the usual noises to accompany it and it's with equal parts curiosity and dread that I open the loo door and peek inside. John is lying in the bottom of the bathtub, the water beating down on him, apparently asleep.

"How was it?" I ask, amazed at the evenness of my voice.

John cracks his eyes open just enough to glare at me, then yawns, "Shoo." He rubs his hands over his face, wiping the dampness from his eyes, and sighs, "Click the water off first, actually. Then: shoo."

I lift an eyebrow and leave the lav, water still running.

**ii.**

John spends the next week and a half in a daze. I spend it in a black mood. John gets two texts that make him blush, and he deletes them immediately.

What have I done?

**iii.**

I read one of John's hastily deleted texts over his shoulder in a cab one day, the words clear- if backwards- in the mobile's reflection in the window. _Still have a bed. Still think it's pretty cozy_, it says, and my hands feel suddenly restless. John deletes the text without responding, but I don't miss the little smile that plays on his lips.

"Have you spoken to Lestrade since…?" I let my question trail off naturally, nothing on my face but casual inquisitiveness.

Guiltily, John looks up from his phone and clears his throat. "Have I- uh, no. Well, he's texted me. A few times. But I've not responded."

_Lie._

Is it?

I can't tell.

That doesn't make sense; I can always tell. But right now my brain is muddied with a horrifying bundle of emotion and _I can't tell_. I want to believe John implicitly; I want to snatch John up and shake him until he tells me the truth.

Why are all these _stupid_ wants keeping me from getting at the facts?

I make some sort of pleasant and unremembered response in return before switching my gaze back to the window. It would be absolutely impossible for the likes of John Watson to cheat on _me_.

Right?

**iv.**

"Good heavens," Mycroft says mildly, picking his way through the mess in my sitting room. I've been agonizingly bored for the last three weeks and entirely unwilling to text Lestrade for a case, so I'm engaging myself somewhat heavily in research and reorganization. Hence the mess of cardboard boxes, each of them spilling an array of papers and artifacts (small fragments of rock and bone; weapons still rusty with old blood; plants, dried and pressed on wax paper; diaries and planners filled with the handwritten notes of strangers) on to every available surface in the room, floor included.

I roll my eyes and ignore him, continuing my hunt through the nearest box. (I think I can safely bin this foxtail, but taxidermy is such a fascinating trade and it might well come in handy at some point. I'm torn.)

Leaning obnoxiously on his umbrella, Mycroft sighs. "When you were a boy," he begins, and my back goes instantly rigid, "I was so often forced to chide you for the careless way you treated your belongings." I think he's still talking about the mess in the room until he adds, "I used to say 'be gentle with your playthings, Sherlock, or you'll break them'. I didn't expect I'd have need of repeating myself this far into adulthood."

My eyes meet his and we have one of the silent conversations that drives John mad. It's faster than words, and easier, this exchange we carry on with our eyes and the corners of our mouths. My narrowed eyes and tense jaw say _mind your own business_, and Mycroft's raised eyebrow and the quirk at one corner of his mouth say _your business is my business, brother mine_. Already annoyed by his presence, I concede, "I didn't realize you were so concerned with John's well-being." I've forfeited a point, both by breaking the silence and acknowledging the actual reason behind his comment, but it's a concession I'm willing to make if it means he will leave, and soon.

"Ever since Dr. Watson's well-being became so intrinsically involved in your own, Sherlock, it has been one of my greatest concerns." Smug. Irritating.

"Perhaps you should get a hobby," I yawn.

Mycroft's smirk and near-imperceptible increase in eyebrow height tells me I won't like his return volley. "A hobby? What do you suggest?" He shifts his weight, crosses his leg over the other. "Match-making, possibly? You seem quite good at it; maybe you could teach me."

Two-love. My hands are clutching the foxtail so tightly I might tear it. "What do you know?"

I hate Mycroft's laugh. It's a tinkling, dancing sort of thing, far too enunciated. You can hear every syllable of it. "Ha-ha-ha ha-ha," he laughs, before pursing his lips haughtily together. "I know that men like us, my dear brother, are far better suited towards the cold realities of politics and crime scene investigations than the frankly messy and unbecoming affairs of the heart. I also know," here Mycroft smiles, small and secret, "where your Dr. Watson is right now."

I'm on my feet before I even recognize the urge to stand. The space between Mycroft and myself is too small, much too small, and I take a step back, uncomfortably aware that I am losing this round pitifully. "Mycroft," I warn, my voice edged.

"As you know," Mycroft says as though I haven't just invaded his personal space and threatened him, "I keep a carefully vigilant eye on this little household." Euphemism; my brother is so fond of euphemisms. I know what he really means: he has us- me, John, and Mrs. Hudson- under near-constant surveillance. Mycroft inspects the tip of his umbrella with a thoughtful frown. "I noticed Dr. Watson behaving…strangely." He smiles, dark eyes catching mine meaningfully. "And you know how I worry. So I sent a…friend…to keep an eye on him. Said friend phoned me a half-hour ago, worried about some odd noises he was hearing. You see, _mon frère_, he initially believed Detective Inspector Lestrade was killing the poor doctor."

"Stop," I pant. I can't hear any more of this, I can't. Of course I know. I've known since the first time it happened, when John came home from doing the shopping with hardly enough groceries to last us the week and a carefully unruffled look about him. I know. But that _Mycroft_ knows!

"Oh, so you know the noises to which I'm referring, then?" Mycroft says, feigned surprise lining his face. "Yes, it would seem so." I've been so thoroughly defeated at this point that I can't do anything but quietly resent the look of pity Mycroft gives me then, made all the worse in its authenticity. "I cannot fix this for you, Sherlock, no matter how much I may wish it were so. I have spent your entire life happily cleaning up your messes, and so long as I live I will continue to do so. But this particular mess, I fear, is yours alone."

"Get out," I spit, because as unbearable as I find the thought of John being with Lestrade, Mycroft's demonstrations of brotherly love are infinitely worse.

Mycroft looks at me for a long moment, his eyes lacking their usual gloating shine, and then he sighs, "Very well. Be gentle with your playthings, Sherlock, lest they break." He taps his umbrella once before picking his way out of the room and clipping down the stairs at a steady, leisurely pace.


	5. Chapter 5

**i.**

The squat, brick building that houses Lestrade's flat is in a neighborhood that is swiftly becoming middle class, but it's nowhere near as nice as our place on Baker Street. Amid the various bakeries and florists that litter the neighborhood, one can still find corner shops that deal in more than just crisps and soft drinks, and young men with hooded, aimless eyes still linger in the doorways of some of the more run-down buildings. This isn't the same building Lestrade lived in when we first met (though of course he's been married and divorced since then). I'd only been to his old flat once (and suffered a small bout of heart failure on his sofa, but that's another topic for another day) but I could still find it easily.

This one, however, I find by following John.

I knew it was a "Lestrade day" just from the way John zipped up his coat. John tugged at the zipper with a purposefulness that told me he was steeling himself, not against the cold but against something more immaterial, an emotion or a thought that bothered him. After that little display, I decide to follow him. Trailing a quarry is easy, even one who is on guard (and my John, my clever John, has learned more than once how easy it is to be snatched off the street), so I never worry that he will see me. Even so, I take the precaution of wearing one of the coats I keep around for disguises instead of my own, as well as a hat and a false mustache.

John takes the lift once he's inside the building (odd- he normally prefers to take the stairs wherever we go, something about heart health) and I press my ear against the doors, listening. One floor, two floors, stop. The lift doors open, close. Silence. So it wasn't just someone else getting on, then, or the lift would be moving. Excellent.

On the third floor, I pause at each door, listening, and at the door to flat 319 I'm both gratified and disgusted by the sounds I hear. They certainly haven't wasted any time. But those awful, howling moans are muffled enough that I'm sure they're in a bedroom- towards the back of the flat, if I'm any judge- with the door closed. Perfectly safe to break in, then. I pull out my tools and set to work.

Nineteen seconds later, the lock gives and the door eases open by not even an inch. I hestitate, palm pressed to the door and ears strained, but the activity in the bedroom hasn't ceased (if anything, it's become more harried and frenetic) so I carefully, quickly slip inside.

Lestrade's flat is tidy, the walls blank and white, the furniture mismatched but clean, well-groomed, the wood of the tables polished and the upholstery of the couches bearing the signs of a recent steam-clean. His kitchen is bare, nothing on the counters and only a child's drawing held up by an alphabet letter ("D") pasted to the refrigerator. I wonder if he's lived here long (all the signs say no, and yet he's been divorced for nearly two years and separated for much longer) as I peruse the almost-empty bookshelf in his living room. Here is a child's photograph, and I recognize the little boy. Toby, Lestrade's eldest. Here, another photo: Lestrade clutching a child in each arm, Toby to his left and Andrea, Lestrade's daughter, on the right. Toby looks like his mother, fair-haired and delicate-boned, but Andrea has the dark features and intelligent eyes of her father. Does Lestrade's ex-wife begrudge the girl of this?

The noises in the bedroom are reaching a fever-pitch. I swallow back whatever _feelings _this causes (today is not about feelings; today is about facts) and cast around for somewhere to hide. There's a closet in the hall, and opening it reveals several small, brightly-coloured coats and a rack full of quilts and spare sheets. Doubtful Lestrade will have any need of these, for the moment, so I nip inside and pull the door closed behind me. Lucky for me, the wall to my right is shared with the bedroom, and the ancient walls of this cheap building are thin. Pressing my ear against it, I can hear what's happening in the bedroom with perfect clarity.

John's cries make it difficult for me to focus on anything but the ball of anger and hurt that's forming in my stomach, so I'm exceedingly glad when they abruptly stop. There's a moment in which they only gasp, and then the bed creaks and Lestrade groans lowly and says, breathless, "Beautiful, that's so beautiful," and it takes me a long time, too long, to place the obscene, wet noises I'm hearing. When I do, my hands clench uselessly at my side. My John, my John…

Another groan from Lestrade; another creak from the bed; silence. Then, infuriatingly, Lestrade's hateful chuckle. "Look at you," he says, a smile in his voice. He's teasing as he sighs, "Give me ten minutes looking at you like _that_ and I could probably go another round."

"Okay," John says, completely serious, and then the two share a laugh that makes my stomach turn. Some shifting; something hard and plastic scuffles against something made of wood. (Mobile; bedside table; the shifting weight can only be John.) "Actually," John says, a little regretfully, "I'd probably do best to grab a quick shower and go."

"I wish you'd stay." Lestrade, also regretful but a touch….what? Melancholy? Embarrassed? There's something very unhappy about his tone, but reproachful and cautious, too. Strange.

A sigh from John. "You know I can't."

"I know no such thing."

"Greg," John says, impatient. "Please, don't."

"How long has it been?" Lestrade asks, the pitch of his voice suggesting this is a question he asks John frequently. I'm mystified until he adds, "How long has it been since he's spoken to you, or even _looked _at you instead of looking right through you?" I blink; consider. The last time I spoke to John. We were in a cab, he'd just gotten a text…how long ago was that? Time is different for me, when I'm thinking. It drifts, sometimes, or it rushes in rough currents that carry me away without any hope of fighting against it. It feels like only days since that cab ride, but our clothes, the weather…putting the memory of that day against my knowledge of today side by side, I have to admit it must be more like months. "Come on, love, talk to me," Lestrade insists, to John's silence. "I wish you'd let me take care of you."

"I don't need-" John starts, angry, but something stops him. Ah, they're kissing. The walls of this closet feel too close, pressing in on me.

"I know I'm not your first choice," Lestrade whispers. He clears his throat, goes on with a bit more confidence, "But I've always been here. The last time, that mess with Moriarty?"

"You were there," John admits, his voice small. "God, even then we almost…"

"I wish we had," Lestrade says quickly. "Maybe if I hadn't been such a damn fool I could have kept you safe from all this. He wouldn't be able to hurt you," a small kiss, "because you would be mine."

One beat of silence. Then: "I have to go."

"John-"

"Greg, I have to go." The bed groans softly; John's feet touch the floor; his footsteps, so light and gentle, carry around the room as fabric rustles. He's getting dressed.

"I won't pretend," Lestrade says, his voice even but barely concealing a fury that takes me by surprise. "I know you'd prefer it, but I won't. John, I love you."

"Please," John says softly, and it's not like how he says 'please' to me at all. This time he's begging. "Please, just don't. I can't…Greg, I can't. I can't do this."

The bed makes small protesting noises as Lestrade gets up. "John, I love you," he says again, this time much, much closer to where John's voice was before. "I love you. I know you don't feel the same, not yet, but I'm willing to wait. You just…you have to let him go, sunshine, or you'll never get better."

"Get off me." John, my little spitfire.

"Okay." A step back; I imagine Lestrade has his hands raised. "All right. I won't press you. But I meant every damn word I said, and I won't take it back."

(A memory of me with my head in John's lap, trembling, begging: _take it back._ Is this how John feels, broken under the weight of someone else's love?)

When John answers, his voice is closer to the bedroom door. "And I meant it when I said this was just sex. I haven't changed my mind on that."

"This was never just about sex, sweetheart," Lestrade says, smiling (why smiling? I can clearly hear a smile). "I'm no genius, but even I know that."

The slamming of Lestrade's bedroom door seems to be John's rejoinder, and ten seconds later it's emphasized by the echo of the front door.

It's warm in this little closet but I'm shaking all the same, minute tremors wriggling down my arms and into my fingertips. I listen to the silence in Lestrade's room, the soft reprimand Lestrade gives himself (_"cocked that one right up, didn't you mate?"_) before he lies back down, and then let myself out as quietly as I came in.

**ii.**

_Hush now_, Irene Adler says to me in a dream. We're in a warehouse, cool air, the light from the unfinished ceiling dancing and casting odd shadows around the space. The whole world seems to have been bathed in a shade of unearthly blue. _Shh, it's okay_. I look at Irene, at her careful hairdo and her ruby lipstick. For some unfathomable reason she's wearing my coat, not the old one she's worn before but my new one, the one John bought me two Christmases back.

No sooner have I thought of John then he appears, standing just beside Irene. She smiles warmly at him and takes his hand, pulling him close. _This is your heart_, she says, looking at me. She lays her head on his shoulder. _This is your heart, and you should never let it rule your head._

I wake up gasping.

**iii.**

John doesn't look peaceful in sleep. John looks small, and fragile, and his brow is furrowed in a way that makes me wonder if he's dreaming of me.

I'm sitting cross-legged at the foot of John's bed. His radio alarm is the only source of light, a constant green presence that blares _3:37 _at me as though I've asked. But my eyes have adjusted to the dark, in the half hour I've been silently sitting here. I can look at John's sleeping face and wonder if he's dreaming of me. If John wakes up (sometimes he does, when I watch him sleep) he might be upset. He might want to have a row. That's okay; I don't mind.

I need to look at John right now.

Pressing my palms together just beneath my chin, I lean forward and look at him more closely. Here is a thought I've been considering: Betrayal is the nature of love.

I've betrayed John. I've betrayed John countless times, but I can enumerate a few:

I've poisoned John without his knowledge on two separate occasions, once while only 76% certain of the abilities of the antidote.

I have intentionally drugged John at least six times, accidentally drugged John twice, and once- memorably- tried and failed to drug John in order to observe him under laboratory conditions.

Before John and I were together, but while he already loved me, I considered having sex with Irene Adler, despite being aware of his feelings and having only limited physical interest in her.

I lie to John on a regular basis, sometimes for no reason other than to see if he knows I'm lying. (John currently has an accuracy rate of 58%. It is much higher if we've recently been intimate or had a row; much lower if the lie is told in the morning or just after John's done something tiring.)

I let John think I was dead for three years.

I let John think he _had _to think I was dead for three years. (Mycroft and I played that game admirably, but then we've always made an excellent team when we've chosen to play for the same side.) John was never in any danger, and I barely was. I could have written John, or phoned him. I could have sent him an email or showed up on the doorstep he shared with a woman who died before I was willing to come back. I could have, and I didn't, and this is the worst betrayal of all because John doesn't even know about it.

If betrayal is the nature of love, then true love cannot exist until both parties have been betrayed and have done the betraying. That seems clear, in my mind, and surely I have betrayed John often and thoroughly enough that my love for him is unquestionable.

Now, because he loves me, he's done the same.

(Surely that can't be right?)

(And yet I think of Irene- _I was only playing the game_- and I think of my brother, his dark eyes narrowed and searching the veins of my arms. I think of John moaning in Lestrade's bed and of Mrs. Hudson's husband tossing bodies in the marshes of Florida. I think of Moriarty's man, Moran, sobbing, "What did you do to him? What did you do?" as I show him gray-and-red pictures taken on a silent rooftop. I think of a summer spent in Japan, warm air in a tiny flat, and the soft trill of my mobile as Mycroft's name and text appear on the screen: _The ceremony is over. John is miserable but keeping up appearances. His new bride seems very amiable. You'd hate her. M._)

John shifts in his sleep, his mouth parting softly, and in that moment I love him more than I ever have.

I consider lying down beside him but in the wake of my revelation I find I can't sit still. I need to do _something_, anything with this energy inside me. I can't approach John like this or I'll run him off, certainly, terrify him with the force of my love. So instead I kiss his parted lips carefully and leave the room, scooping up my coat on my way to the front door.

Tomorrow. I'll tell him tomorrow.

**iv.**

"John, I love you."

"Sherlock!" John starts, his worn paperback (_The Count of Monte Cristo_, he's read it dozens of times and yet always returns to it when he's got something troubling in mind) tumbling out of his hands and to the floor. I saw the page he was on and hopefully at some point I'll remember to tell him, but right now I'm too wound up and I need to say exactly what I've rehearsed.

"I love you," I say, starting up again where he'd interrupted me. His jaw is slack and his eyes searching me frantically, as though he's worried I've been wounded somehow. "Sometimes I say that and I don't mean it, but this time I do. I thought about it at some length and came to the only possible conclusion: I love you, desperately."

"Sherlock," John says again, but softly this time. He rises slowly from his chair, his eyes round and deep, cerulean blue. "I…"

My eyes narrow. "You're frightened. Why?"

"You…you gave me a shock," John says, laughing a little shakily. "I…you haven't spoken to me in, God, nearly seven months now."

"Haven't I?" I consider this. No, it seems I haven't. "Well, I warned you that might happen."

This time John's laugh is real and warm, and I want to steal it out of his mouth with mine- so I do. When the urge to breathe overwhelms the urge to keep kissing John, I lift my head and he looks up at me the way he looks at the sky, sometimes, when we're out of town and he can see the stars. Breathless, awestruck. "Where have you been?" he asks quietly, wondrously.

"Thinking."

"You've been thinking in near total silence for seven months?" John chuckles, once, and shakes his head. "Must have been a pretty serious thought."

I pull my arms a little tighter around him and lower my lips to his, not kissing him, just sharing his air. I whisper: "I was thinking about you."

John's breath hitches. "And you decided that you love me."

"Mmm," I agree, kissing him with a tenderness that surprises even me. "Desperately."

"Sherlock," he sighs, and I can't hear his voice like that without kissing him again. When I let him go this time, John says, lightly, "Well. Now that that's settled, will you be resuming full-time residence in the land of the living or slipping back off into that funny old head of yours?"

"I'll stay."

John smiles and gives me one small kiss on the corner of my mouth before sighing and putting his hands on his hips. He's contemplating tea, or sex. I don't feel like sex. "Tea," I say, adding as an after-thought, "please." John fights a smile and loses, shaking his head, and I follow him into the kitchen.

I like watching John work. Whenever he's doing something practiced, something he's done countless times (making tea, cleaning his gun, tending a minor injury), I watch his hands and something inside me relaxes. John's hands are soothing.

But I don't like what I see in John's face when he hands me my cup. I don't like way he's biting at the inside of his cheek, and I don't like the little furrow between his brows. In emphasis of this I kiss the bridge of his nose, but the furrow only deepens. "Stop that," I say, leaning back.

John swallows hard. "Sherlock…I should- there's something I should tell you-"

"Lestrade." I flap my hand dismissively, but John looks stricken. Sighing, I say, "Of course I know."

"Oh God," John says slowly, falling into his chair. His eyes are unfocused; he looks distinctly unrelieved. What, then? He wanted me to know; I know.

Oh. Have I missed something? "You're not planning to carry on seeing him?" I ask, incredulous.

"God, no," John says quickly. "No, of course not. Sherlock, I shouldn't have- I never-"

I stop his floundering with a look that says _you're boring me to death_. "Had to be done," I explain with only slightly limited patience. "I took your unerring faithfulness to be a part of your character." I sit up and look him in the eyes, barely concealing my smile. "I was right, you see. You are the most faithful, most reliable man I have ever met, and you _cheated _on me." The smile settles on my lips, smug but genuine. "You love me."

"I…" John shakes his head, wraps his hands around his cup.

"You love me, John." It's so simple; why can't he see it? "You love me so much that you destroyed something essential about yourself just so I would see it. Maybe not consciously," I add, to the protestations sitting on his tongue, "but all the same. My loyal, faithful John. If you'd never betrayed me, I wouldn't know. Finally, finally you've given me what I needed from you." I put my hand around his, absorbing the transferred heat of his teacup, and smile softly. "Everything."

John's mouth opens, closes, opens again. "You really are a raving lunatic," he says, but with undeniable fondness. I settle back and sip my tea, watching him from over the rim. Maybe we _should_ have sex, later. Just so John's sure. Or maybe we'll just sleep together. I slept two nights ago and I'm not sure I can manage it again tonight, but I can fake it until John's asleep. And then I can watch him, study his small thoughtful face, and wonder if he's dreaming about me.

**A/N: Annnd I'm pretty sure that's the end. Sorry if there isn't enough closure for you but what can I say? I like leaving things a little open-ended. Hope you enjoyed! This was strangely pleasurable to write.**


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